


Interstellar Overdrive

by Hexxie



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Deviates From Canon, Drama, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Heroes, Humor, I'm Sorry, Love, Mostly Platonic, Multi, Relationship(s), Romance, Russia, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Sexual Content, Supernatural Elements, Superpowers, Swearing, The Power Of Love, Violence, a LOT of alcohol, lots of swearing, powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 04:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11959626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexxie/pseuds/Hexxie
Summary: The name's Dana. This is the Story Of How, For Some Reason, I Ended Up Having To Do Things™. Please, do not judge me too terribly. I might not be the best of heroes, nor the worst, I'd like to assume — hell, I don't even think I fit in the definition of hero, after all. But, being the main character of the tale, you're stuck with me in this journey of drama, actual Russian vodka, fun with friends! and so on.Warning: Usage of teenage-like sarcasm ahead. Sorry, I never got past the tracksuit phase.Anyway, here's the thing. Hope you enjoy. Somehow.





	Interstellar Overdrive

**Author's Note:**

> As I said in the tags, I'm sorry about this. I've been wanting to write Dana's story for a while, but I never got myself to actually start it. I have to apologise for my narrating skills: I'm aware they are kind of sloppy and one-sided (you know, having to experience a story from the point of view of one single character), but I think I can successfully communicate the whole thing without getting to bore you. Maybe? Thank you for reading or visiting, anyway!
> 
> PS. Kids, please, don't drink and drive!

 

>  
> 
> The cleverest of all, in my opinion, is the man who calls himself a fool at least once a month.

 

I don't think I can make it. I truly doubt so. In a pathetic attempt of getting a grasp of the world of the living, I extend my arm with the astonishing speed of a recently-awoken-from-a-five-year-comma sloth. I am putting all my effort, mental and physical strength to try and close my fingers around the doorknob. Hell, I always complained about it being too short for average height adults, but now, struggling to get a hold of it from the floor feels like I'm trying to climb up the Eiffel fucking Tower. Remember that guy that tested a parachute of his own design and jumped down a few floors of the Eiffel Tower? Why didn't he try and use a dummy? Do I look like a dummy now?

 

Why me? It's so cold out here, in the middle of Saint Petersburg, during February. Or is it March already? Shit, I'm going to die in the cold, all by myself (not a good company for your last minute, to be honest) and I don't even know what day it is. Lasted too long, in my opinion. Longer than I'd bet if I had the privilege of being a spectator. I can't even feel my fingers. I don't think I'd make a good parachute-testing dummy right now: I feel like I would break into tiny pieces if I hit the floor from a considerable height. Like a big ole' chunk of ice.

 

Wait. I can hear the muffled voices of people having drinks and laughing inside the pub. Maybe if I get to grab the knob and drop down, and with the help of my friend Mother Gravity, I will be able to open the door and announce my tragic death out loud. Will I get to say a name? What if I say Ochki's name? Will he be embarrassed of looking like the local murderer? Feels like the perfect prank to pass away to.

 

"Dana, will you ever stop getting drunk and mistaking the old, blocked entrance door for the actually usable one?", a voice prompts up from behind me. Is this my guardian angel?

 

As I feel the touch of icy water in my face, I immediately yelp out loud in a quite awkward way. Somehow, the embrace of cold deathly water has awoken some of my senses, but even though I'm not drowsy anymore, it's still fricking fracking freezing.

 

This is definitely not my guardian angel.

 

Slowly, I turn back to see the perpetrator of my public humiliation's face. And of course, it's my best friend: glasses guy. "Oh my God", he suddenly regrets his action. "I didn't know you were _so_ cold. Dana, your lips are blue!"

 

"Why _thank you_ ", I groan as loud as I can. My voice is so raspy I can feel how words scratch the insides of my throat. "It's, like, minus ten degrees out here in the street; sure seeing me crawling across the steps made you think I'm having the time of my life in the cold."

 

Mumbling to himself in the most fatherly manner I have ever seen from him, he lifts me up with a tad of difficulty and drags me to the back of the pub. My feet are sweeping the ground. He's not the strongest man in town. Carefully, though, he grabs me with one arm and pushes the back door open, earning a grunt from Nice Pub Owner Anatoli. I'm pretty sure he hates it when we join him in the back of the bar, but he only comes here when he needs to replace an empty bottle or grab the first-aid kit because some wanker tried to jump past two tables with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Believe me or not, that wasn't me that time.

 

"I told you, no entering here without a _valid_ reason. This is not your backyard, for fuck's sake!"

 

There you go.

 

"Anatoli, can you stop whining and help me for a second? I think Dana's about to pass out."

 

"What the hell, Dana?", he reprimands me while approaching us, his spare tires bouncing when he does so. I can't help but giggle to myself when I think of the aspect of the general scene around me. "You haven't even entered the pub today, yet you're wasted already? I hate to be the one to tell you, since I make money with this, but I seriously think you have a problem."

  
"Come on", I groan once more. I hope they can hear me. I hope they know I would kill them for making me look so miserable. "Stop acting like my death is a big deal. I mean, I love living and shit, but this isn't my fault. It's your fucking old door's."

 

"What?", he jumps in surprise. Despite mi height, he's managed to sit me down on top of a small table, and he's looking at me in a mixture of anger and exhaustion. "Wait, why is her hair _wet_?"

 

"My bad", Ochki admits in a guilty tone, rushing to approach us with a few faux-leather blankets and a hairdryer. "My bad... I was convinced she was solely drunk, and thought some water would help her wake up a bit..."

 

"Are you dumb!?", the moustached, big bald guy yells at him. Even though the situation calls for it, I don't think he knows how to speak in a normal tone. "It's twelve degrees below! Why on Earth would you wet her?"

 

"You know, in a way-", I try to say, but get interrupted by the awful sound of a possibly thirty year old hairdryer.

 

"Where did you get that from?", Anatoli manages to outplace Mister Antique Hairdryer in loudness.

 

"Uh, remember when I stayed here that one night, like, five months ago?"

 

"Oh, just shut it!", the old man finally blows up, strolling back to the front part of the pub through a particularly tacky and dusty velvet curtain. After a few minutes of drying the humour of my eyes off, slightly burning my hair and rubbing my arms with the blankets, I can ensure I feel way better than I did half an hour ago. What was I actually doing half an hour ago? I never experienced the infamous memory lapses from the abuse of alcohol, but for some reason, the concept of the whole evening feels blurry and confusing. Ochki must have noticed the furrow in my brow, because he looks even more puzzled than I do. He stopped rubbing my arms.

 

"You know what they say about body heat and shit?", I wiggle my eyebrows at him.

 

"Oh, Dana, what are we, fifteen?", he shakes his head in disbelief, rolling the cord all around the handle of the eighties-fashioned hairdryer. "You could have  _died_ out there, you know that?"

 

"Why, I beg you differ", I wrap the blankets around my neck in a high class old lady fashion. "I am the Russian Steve Rogers, and you just screwed my plans. You impeded me from wrapping in my chilling cocoon of ice to fall into a fifty-year slumber. You just kept me from saving the presumably campy world of the 2060s."

 

He halts for a second and stares at me. I think he's trying to raise an eyebrow, but all he manages to mimick is some kind of eye-squinting gesture topped by a shaking set of eyebrows. Six out of ten.

 

"You know, it was more than fifty years that he slept for", he finally mumbles, crossing his arms and leaning on a somewhat empty table. The roof in this room is so low, yet his height is so absurdly high, he looks comical even when disappointed in me. Why is everything around me so unpurposely humorous, yet I appear to be the only one that finds it so. "And you don't get to be the Russian Steve Rogers. Wasn't that meant to be your old pal, Dima? Don't steal his glory."

 

I shift in my place, suddenly feeling bad about being right here right now. As if nearly freezing to death wasn't enough. "I guess. I mean, it was his dream, and shit, but oh well. I guess enlisting at an early age felt close enough for him."

 

Dima has been (and will always be, for the record) the person I have felt the closest to. Ever. Whatever I have had with other people will never be as strong of a bond as what we both shared during our childhood and teenage days, no matter how much we fought over or literally wrestled for. But hearing "Dima" and "don't steal his glory" in the same track of conversation has just made me feel like the pile of worthless shit I am.

 

Sniffling noisily, I jump on my feet, and I find myself surprisingly steady already. I think I can make it to the unswept garage I call home alone.

 

"Wait, where are you actually going?", he calls me out, standing in front of me in a defensive pose. Oh, boy. Here we go.

 

"Don't get all paternalistic on me, Ochki."

 

"You call this paternalism? Watching out for a friend? You're a drunkard who barely reached the bar today in a tracksuit and sneakers during _winter_ , but I'm being overprotective now? You're welcome for saving your ungrateful ass."

 

"I made a mistake", I exclaim from the top of my lungs. Yes; I may have an attitude problem. But the fact that that sentence actually came out of my mouth could actually turn this moment into a historical one, the kind of event that people write down in basic school history books. "Okay? I fucked up. I bet that's exactly what you wanted to hear. Just let me be. I'm going home."

 

I'm not actually sure if it was my manners or what I said, but something clicked inside this guy's head. He suddenly looks either surprised or sad. Is he actually pitying me?

 

"I don't have a drinking problem. I maybe got a little excited and drank a whole lot of Vodka in the workshop today, and felt like finishing the night out in the pub with my alleged group of friends. And no: I didn't actually drive here. I stumbled my way out, and tripped over something, somewhen. Standing felt like quite the challenge, I'm telling you."

 

With all the dignity I have left, I remove most of the blankets I had on top of my shoulders — I decided to borrow one of those a minute ago, anyway, and start leaving for the back door again. I ain't even looking back. Hell, I refuse to look into this bloke's eyes right now. Either if he's pitying or scolding me, I don't want to see it.

 

"And I won't try to open the old door ever again", I finally mutter, leaving the door to close itself behind me.

 

* * *

 

I have a terrible feeling about this. Why am I on this acid roller coaster and whose was the idea of getting on it? Is that a pink elephant? God, I think I'm about to puke.

 

And there it goes. My dinner from last night.

 

I blink twice, trying to collect my memories from the past few minutes. I think I am lying by the side of my stone-hard bed right now. I can recognise the feet of my nightstand above my head. Did I just puke on the floor? I am never drinking again.

 

After the due mopping and sweeping ritual, I toss my sweater aside and get immediately struck by the fierce clenched fist of forenoon cold inside my garage. Shaking from temple to ankle, I remove the rest of my clothes, roll them into a big ball of cotton and polyester and throw them inside the laundry casket. Impressive shot. Would make a terrific basketball player. Rubbing both my eyes, I wash my face before starting my so-feared morning shower. The water is freezing at the start, and gives me terrible memories from the last night, but as seconds go by, it gets warmer, and I close my eyes again inside the not-so-small pleasures of a hot shower. Oh, how badly I'd boil into oblivion.

 

Wait. That sounds terrible.

 

When I get out of the shower, I immediately cuddle into a ball of hangover and self-pity, wrapped like a burrito inside my enormous towel. I'm not particularly short, maybe above average, which is why I got a bunch of huge beach towels for personal use. I should be rocking a few tunes with my old CD stereo set, but as I try and press the play button, it just makes awful screeching noises as usual. I am definitely fixing that later. As I roam around, I pick random clothes to throw on for the day, but carefully selecting something that won't make me freeze to death in the doorstep of a pub. I got my grey thermal sweater on, which just made me sigh in relief. Wearing some warm yoga pants as a cold breaker under my Adidas ones will also help. Maybe I should be a responsible human being and wear that old, driving black poncho with safety, reflecting stripes. God, it's so flashy. In a way, I hate-love it.

 

After pulling my  _three_ layers of clothes and putting them all on in the right order (I think), I set to walk outside for my beloved bukhanka, my good  _old_ van. Oh, how I love my shabby ride. It's actually a mixture of UAZ pieces I wittily put together, and it's a work of art. For me. Some western asses think it looks "too Russian" for their taste, but I think there is a charm to it. Right before I walk out of the rusty pedestrians door, I remember something. Last night I didn't finish my Vodka at all. I stand there, staring at the half-full bottle and figuring a few things out. I approach my little, white fridge (why do I even have one when I could just lay my stuff on the pavement?), grab a chilli pepper, drink a short gulp of Vodka and bite the chilli whole. Now, you might be thinking I'm crazy, but this is a classic babuchka solution for cold. 

 

Alright. I am ready for the wintry weather.

 

I love driving alone to the middle of nowhere, and I love it even more when I find old junk by the side of the road. Last time I did this, a few weeks ago, I found a broken Lada Samara with no wheels _at all._ It might sound weird, but you should see the kind of shit people leave in the tundra. I've got my portable tool set in case I find something interesting, so I can dismantle it and take a few pieces home — a habit I keep from my old glory days of scrap dealing. My tools might be the youngest, newer thing inside this whole motor, apart from... me, maybe. Come on. I'm not that old.

 

Oh, and the camera. I'm not sure you know about this, but everyone who drives in Russia has a dash camera to record the road. Why? Because law might or  _might not_ be on our side in case an accident happens, and some pedestrians find it funny to try and defraud their insurance by jumping in front of a car. Okay, I would find it funny too if jumping on the road assured me a few hundreds of bucks, but hey, I'm not that self-destructive. There might be some jam down in the city, but I know my roads quite well. Fixing old junk and evading traffic (or people, for that matter) are my specialities; so with a bit of cheating and driving here-and-there, I can see I am finally leaving the centre of Saint Petersburg behind. My stereo set back home might not work well, but now that I'm free from people looking weirdly at a noise-pumping twenty year old van, I can happily play my music and drive for the next few hours.

 

As I wiggle to the sound of Moskau, the song from Dschinghis Khan (who are, ironically, a German band), my dancing skills are interrupted by a sudden flash of light. I jump a little, surprised by how it was able to light up the whole road and my surroundings, even when the sun is rising already. Was that a lightning?

 

A piercing sound, louder than whatever you'd normally hear during a trip to the inner tundras of the Northwestern Federal District, echoes all around me and makes my brain jolt in a painful way. I kick the brakes as strongly as I can; the headache is impeding me from focusing on what's actually going on outside my van. With some improvised manoeuvre, I turn and enter the side of the road, where I finally stop abruptly, unharmed. I expected a few rolls in the air before I hit a tree or something, just like it happens in the movies, but there is literally nothing around me for maybe miles. Breathing heavily, I look back front and witness an unexpectedly beautiful fall from the sky. What it is that's falling, I'm not sure, but it just left an impressive purple tail after its track. Whatever it is, I got to lock my eyes on it right before it hit the snow a few hundreds of metres away. The floor shakes slightly, but noticeably.

 

Oh. My. God.

 

As I come back to my senses, I push the gas pedal and speed towards the place of the crash. As soon as the crater left from the impact is visible from behind the windscreen, I slow down and exit the car, running towards the Unidentified Not-Flying-Anymore Object. It has a long but well rounded shape, just like a pill would, and it's composed of some alloy of metals I cannot quite identify. The side of the ship visibly broken, opening a big hole I can fit through, but it doesn't look like a consequence of the fall. Undoubtedly, and oblivious to the dangers it might hold, I walk in, curious about what it might contain. Mindlessly, I propel myself up and yell loudly at a sudden wave of pain caused by my stupid choice of grabbing a white hot metal wearing nothing but a feeble fur and leather glove. Shaking my hand in distress, I keep walking inside the steamy compartment of the ship, overwhelmed by the elegance and delicacy of the mostly broken technology around me. It looks nothing like what I think I'd find on the surface of this planet. Except for, maybe, the uber-advanced tech I know nothing of belonging to the Roskosmos or the NASA. A orange glass panel that looks quite like a high-tech screen embellishes the front of the compartment, right where you'd expect a transparent window like the ones in cars and planes. Its tone contrasts with the general feeling of the room, made of materials that vary among hues of dark turquoise and blue. There's an egg-shaped red hot metal object in front of the supposed screen, but as I set myself to walk up to it (even though I am way more marvelled at the idea of examining this thing's motor and drives), a cobalt beam pierces through it and starts cutting it open. I should probably start running away in any direction possible, desperately yelling for help or reaching for an authority, but I can't help but stand still and gape at the whole thing.

 

And of course, there's a living being inside the cocoon. Bummer.

 

Although of alien origin (duh), it actually looks _a lot_ like a blue skinned human being. They are big and quite menacing, in my opinion: even when sitting down, they are way taller and bulkier than I am. Hell, they probably are taller and bulkier than most of the people I know of. A few white dreadlocks top their head, falling below their shoulders. With a strange metal looking device covering their face, only their eyes are visible. A trembling, high-pitched noise comes out of the place where their mouth is supposed to be. Oh, God. Is the thing trying to breathe through that mask?

 

When I take a step closer to the living thing, the room starts lighting up intermittently, and an alarm goes off. A figure that looks an awful lot like what I'd look like from the front of the room appears in the orange screen, and a robotic voice starts talking in a threatening tone. I think I have become this ship's current enemy right now. This whole situation looks straight out of a low-budget science fiction film, and I am about to become the possible first human victim on the record. A deep toned voice cuts through the air, even huskier than mine, and the alarms and lights turn off. Thank you, interplanetary pal. The fact that the ship marked me as a possible threat to this walking mass of azure feels but funny to me. With difficulty, the living being reaches for their ear, pulls some kind of earplug out and stretches their hand, as if giving it to me. Heart jumping in my chest, I quickly grab the plug and try to put it in my ear. It fits surprisingly well, for what I expected, since our difference in size is considerable. Slowly, they start talking again; but this time, and for some reason, I feel like I can actually  _understand_ them.

 

"Save... the sons... of the Cotati", he manages to muster.

 

"What the hell?", I sincerely ask him back. "Save the  _who?_ "

 

Without warning, the thing stands up way faster than you'd think of someone who just pierced every layer of the Earth's atmosphere and crashed on a Siberian-like landscape, grabs my face and chest and lifts me up with no visible effort. No, no, no. How would you want me to save anybody if you're just going to finish me off? Was it all a test? Did I give you an invalid answer, dooming my whole race for good? Where are those American guys, who fought some alien forces in spandex a while back in New York, when you need them?

 

A stream of unbearably burning heat starts flowing through my insides, starting from my very chest, scorching every corner of my body. Makes me feel like my blood is literally boiling. What a terrible way to die. I can hear a ringing beep inside my head, and as I helplessly open my mouth to throw up, a dense form of smoky bubbling liquid emerges from my throat in fits and starts, soaking the alien's hand and arm in the process. Why I am not dead yet in this excruciating agony, it remains a mystery. As I struggle to, at least, pass out for good to stop the pain until I finally die, both his grasps loosen at the same time, leaving me to fall down to the floor, right on top of whatever I just disgorged.

 

Waves of pain finally diminishing, I find myself unexpectedly alive, resting in an awkward pose. Half opening my eyes, I try to have a peek of the alien's whereabouts, just to find him lying on the floor in a similar pose to mine. Except, he's not breathing anymore. For a moment, I realise that I haven't taken a breath for, say, nearly a minute; and while I try to get up to sit on the hard ground, a final cough expels a discharge of that blood-red, shiny liquid. Thus, my breathing cavity is free again, and I finally regain my respiring capacity. Inhaling deeply, the contact of air with my lungs feel even worse than it did a few seconds ago, but still more pleasant than experiencing the lack of oxygen. The parts of my clothes that were in touch with the strange bubbling liquid just burnt as if I just threw acid on them. Did I just vomit fucking lava?

 

I'm still drinking that babuchka solution for the cold again as soon as I come back home.

 

Lucky me, the burn in my hand from when I jumped into the ship feels a lot better now. "You know, Ziggy", I whisper as I wobblily propel myself up with both my hands. "Normally, I would worthily bury any living thing that has the misfortune of dying by my side, but your sudden choice to grab me and give me the most painful experience I've ever had just changed my mind. I hope you rot in here."

 

I stagger towards the hole of the ship again, facing the outside. There's no one around, and I won't see a single soul unless I drive to the next town. This road is one of the less traversed in the district, ever since they built a safer, bumpless one that's better communicated between civilised domains. As I jump down back to the asphalt, I am hit by the chill once again, and start breathing out pure clouds of steam. Is my throat that warm? Whatever liquid this alien pumped inside me, God knows how, has fucked me up badly. But at least I'm not as cold as I was when I first walked out of my van. I'm not sure what just happened, but it stays here.

 

Except for the pieces I'm acquiring from this pile of high-tech flying trunk.

 

* * *


End file.
